


The Proposal

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Falling In Love, Horsemen, M/M, Self-Discovery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam knows he loves Makepeace and cannot understand why this knowledge - initially so liberating - has in fact made him deeply unhappy. He has always been afraid of ending up alone, but now, just when he feels the 'true love' he has longed for is within his reach, it seems he is more afraid of ending up with someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proposal

Part 1

Adam stared at the blank paper. It had been a long time since he wrote a letter. But now was a time when quickfire communication, by its very nature, would undermine what he wanted to say. He needed to show his hand, the effort of his literal hand, in the hope it would convey his depth of feeling. “Please understand. At the time I was under enormous pressure, mainly from my work, but also on account of the pressures that come from living in a fish bowl. I say work, as though what I do is like any other job, but it’s not, - for it is my work that creates the fishbowl.”

Adam put down the pen. He read what he had written. How cold, how formal and insincere it sounded. He needed to talk to him face to face. But how to face him now, after he had broken a deal, a deal based on trust. But what deal? No promises had been made.

 _I want you to myself, Make. Marry me._

 _I don’t think that’s a good idea._

 _Why not? I thought you felt as I do. In fact I know you do._

 _Perhaps._

 _Perhaps? Is that the best you can do?_

 _No. But it may be the best you can do, and I am content with that._

And he had been right. No sooner did he get back to LA than he had fallen for someone else, not that it took long to realize the fall had not been from a great height. He turned his attention elsewhere, renewing an affair that cost him nothing other than his hands and lips and semen. Then it all, rather appropriately, or even ironically, blew up in his face when his lover talked up their affair to a mutual acquaintance whose business was dishing dirt in the media. And finally, as though on a mission of self-sabotage, he had given in to the temptation of a straight man who wanted to ‘explore’ his sexuality. What a fiasco. The man was a sycophant. It was humiliating to think he had been such easy prey to flattery. Adored, apparently, by thousands, yet a sucker for one on one adulation.

And all the time, at the back of his mind, there was Make. His own Make, who compared to him was so self-possessed, so – so unavailable. He imagined Make sleeping on the hammock on his verandah, as he often preferred to do, sleeping so easily, blonde hair falling over his closed eyes, his mouth slightly pouting with sleep, his inner silence as uncompromising as the silence of the Milky Way drifting above the farmhouse. He remembered the night they had taken their bedding outside, in the middle of winter, and how when they woke there was frost on their hair and Make had laughed at his silvered eyebrows. He remembered watching him at a local polo meet, how the pony he rode was so viciously independent it would kick and bite anyone who came within kicking and biting distance. Yet it would do anything to please Make. “That boy was born in the saddle,” someone had remarked. And it did seem that way, despite the fact that he was also a working musician. He played slide the same way he rode a horse, laconic, instinctive, assiduously visceral in the way he listened and responded.

And it was the same in bed. He had never slept with someone who treated him like that.

 _You handle me like I’m one of your horses._

 _If I really did that I’d put you to the lunge before laying a hand on you._

 _The lunge?_

 _Yes, the lunge. You’re wilful, and not in a way that does you any good._

 _You’re a toppy bastard. That’s what you are. Why doesn’t it do me any good?_

And Make had shrugged, keeping his thoughts to himself, before bending down to use his face to nudge Adam’s legs apart.

And that was the problem. He always felt that Make knew something about him that he didn’t know. It made him feel shy. It made him feel uncertain. To be honest, it made him ill. He told himself it was because their worlds were so different. He remembered how keenly he had felt that disparity when Make stood around talking polo with his horsey friends while he lounged against the car getting drunk. He remembered driving home, the pony in a float behind them, unable to stop looking at Make’s profile, feeling so sick with love he wanted to get out of the car and lie on the ground to steady himself.

And now he had lost him. For good.

He’d been so out of it the night he called Make that he couldn’t remember making the call. He had no idea what he’d said, but whatever it was it had brought Make to him. The following evening the door bell had rung. He had opened the door wrapped in a towel. Make was standing there, as dishevelled looking as ever, his hair in his eyes, his shirt incorrectly buttoned, his leather jacket coming apart at the seams, his expression one of concern.

“I came as soon as I got your call. What the fuck’s going on?"

And then Adam’s current house guest had come to the door and had slung a possessive arm over Adam’s shoulder.

“Everything okay, babe?” he had asked, looking Make up and down.

“Get your arm off him,” Make had said, moving forward to physically enforce it. “And step away or I’ll make you step away.” Then he had taken Adam into his arms.

“Dear God, you’re as weak a new born foal,” he said. “No, don’t say anything. I’m not talking about your fucking sex life.”

He drew back enough so that he could look at Adam’s face. He smiled his wry smile.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. But don’t call me again.”

And he was gone.

Part 2

The following months were a nightmare, almost the whole fucking year - a total nightmare. He had fondly imagined his work ethic and self-discipline in making music would transfer to any learning situation but most weeks he wanted to give it all away. He was neither a natural, nor an eager learner. Nor did his fears lessen with experience. They seemed to grow. During his most recent lesson the trainer had taken him into a field to show him her new mare. On the other side of the field a horse was standing still, head bowed, looking pensive as they so often do. It became aware of their presence, took a few steps in their direction, then came galloping towards them as though intending to run them down. Adam had stepped behind the trainer, who stood there, hands on her hips, grinning with admiration. The horse barely managed to shy away at the last minute. “You beautiful big bitch,” the trainer called out. “Don’t worry,” she said to Adam. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’s got a pig of a temperament but rides like a Rolls Royce when the mood takes her.” Adam had stared at her tough looking, horsey face. It didn’t surprise him when she prattled on about another of her feisty thoroughbreds, explaining how she had broken him of his biting habit by biting him herself. “Right on the nose,” she said. “It’s not cruel," she added, noticing Adam’s frown. “It’s how discipline is maintained by the lead stallion. Out in the wild. And it worked a treat.” Adam was dubious. Make wasn’t like that.

 _Even when he had Make beneath him, and was cautiously entering him, he still felt he was the one being taken by the reins and led. Make’s narrowed eyes, so long and green and unreadable, threw him off his game. His torso was too lean, his wrists too angular and strong, his hands too self-assured in their caress. It made him want to fuck ruthlessly, fuck to cause pain, fuck so selfishly it would shatter Make’s laissez faire dominance. But it wouldn’t have worked. He was so damn relaxed that even his sphincter control was artless. It reduced Adam’s caution to one of habit rather than necessity and he felt oddly short-changed. One of the reasons he loved anal fucking was his feeling of taking possession, of staking a claim and digging deep to extract the gold. But Make was like one of his damn horses. His body at ease gave lie to the readiness of his vitality to break out at any moment and run like the wind._

 _And even more unsettling was Make’s mastery of touch. No other man had made him ejaculate merely by stroking his prostate. Make had laughed, exultant, at the petulance of his expression._

 _“There’s an old saying,” he  had said, licking the semen off his belly. “It’s not enough for a man to know how to ride; he must know how to fall.”_

 _And Adam didn’t know how to fall. His chest hurt with all the falling. He had loved before, loved deeply, or so he thought, but never like this, never into a strength that was equal to – or possibly greater than – his own._

The tour set his training back by six months. He partied hard along the tour road but kept himself to himself. It’s wasn’t difficult. He wryly accredited his self-imposed celibacy to his – apparent - increased power in performance. The critics raved. “Lambert is going from strength to strength. He’s no longer singing for the supper of opportunity. He’s sings with the confidence of an artist who knows _he_ is the opportunity. One you don’t want to miss.” It was not until the tour ended, and he he was back home, working through the highs and lows of being free once more, that he allowed himself to think of Make. He had delayed returning to the riding school for a few weeks until one particularly lonely night when he could not resist calling Make. The call was answered but not by Make. A man’s voice repeated "Are you there?” a few times and then hung up. He could hear noise in the background, music, voices. Immediately his resolve was renewed, as was his conviction that there was no other way to forward his plan.

 _He remembered his first fall. By now he had the confidence to ride and not be led. It was late afternoon, and the sky was working up to one of those sunsets that takes hold of both east and western skies, causing the latter to blaze, the former to blush. As they passed beneath a chestnut tree one of the nuts fell, glancing off the rear end of Adam’s horse. The horse startled and reared, and Adam slid neatly off its back to land on his behind in the grass. He heard Make call out “Move away from the horse, Adam!” and, scrambling onto all fours, he began to crawl away. In a trice Make was on top of him. He threw his arms around his neck. “You’ve split your pants, lover,” he said into his ear. “Get off,” Adam grunted, but Make couldn’t stop laughing. He sat up on Adam’s back. He slapped Adam’s rump. “I’m gonna drop some nuts on you tonight, and make you buck!” Adam collapsed on the ground. They both rolled around in the grass and ended up with Adam half lying on top of Make. “But I don’t want you off me,” he said. “I want you on!” Make was still laughing when he kissed him, but his laughter was soon subsumed by the kiss. His slight frame arched up to press into Adam. Adam felt as though the sunset was suffusing his entire being, turning his mind, his cheeks, his lips and his heart, to a pale, cool autumnal pink._

Part 3

His heart had initially fallen when a rider at the school called out, “Adam! Adam Lambert!” The last thing he needed was a fan interaction, not in that setting.

The past month had been one of revelation and confidence. The first had occurred when the horse he was accustomed to riding came to his call. By now he could bridle, saddle and groom the horse. He had mastered using the pressure of his thighs to cue the horse into a trot while keeping his hands perfectly still. The trainer told him he had good hands for a beginner. He had learned to use his pelvic bones to respond to the impulsion – the upward and forward thrusts of the trot. He was stronger, more able to resist the urge to support his weight through the stirrups, or to pick himself up through his upper body. And the more relaxed he became the more he began to connect to the horse. He spoke to it, silently or aloud. He began to feel the true size of the horse’s personality, –  that it wasn’t something large and heavy and semi-wild but was similar to his own, sensitive, cautious, not given to wearing its heart on its sleeve. And like him, it shied away from people who could not meet its eye. An understanding grew between them and it was gratifying to them both when Adam leaned on the fence the way Make had done, and called to the horse, and it came.

And after the revelation came the confidence, not merely in his ability to ride, or to relate to the horse. It was the confidence that comes when you lose the need to control. He’d been slow to give it up, but really there was no choice. It was unfair to the horse. If he was afraid he had no right to sit on its back. If he wanted to impress Make, he couldn’t use a horse to do it. As he groomed the horse he found himself leaning his forehead on its side, as he liked to do on Make’s shoulder.

“Adam,” said the voice. He looked up. The woman dismounted. She held out her hand in a forthright gesture of friendliness. “I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself. I’m Marian, and my daughter learned to ride on this horse. Isn’t he wonderful! So patient. He teaches you more than any trainer.” Adam relaxed. She was horsey. She didn’t even mention why and how she knew him.

Marian took him under the wing of her family. They owned a farmlet nearby. Her daughters were as straight-talking and unaffected as their mother, her husband affable and courteous. In time he shared his plans with Marian and she offered to help him. They were able to lease the horse from the school so that Adam could ride as often as he liked. In time they offered him a sleep-out so that he could stay over. When he wasn’t riding he was writing for his next album.

The day he had been planning for arrived mid June. He had checked with the polo club in Leona Valley and knew when and what time Make would be riding. Marian came with him, managing the float. Adam was nervous. Through contacts in the music business he had ascertained that Make was still single, but he could not be sure. He lived such a secret life. And what if his reception was cool? What if he had meant it when he said, “Don’t call me again.”? What if he was angered by him turning up when he wasn’t home. He hadn’t asked him to return his key, but why would he.

They drove up to Make’s house. Adam led the horse through a gate into the field that ran down the side of the house, the field where he first saw Make riding Sylvie. Marian left with the float. If it turned out badly she would come and get them.

It was late afternoon. Soon Make would be home. Adam saddled the horse. He hoisted himself up and found his centre. He walked the horse down to the hillside that fell away in front of Make’s house. He looked around for Sylvie. She was nowhere to be seen. The sun began to set. It was a green sunset, or that is what Make called them. Everything looked as though it had been dipped in a gold wash. He decided to trot. The breeze was cool on his face. Suddenly it wasn’t enough. He could feel the horse’s energy gathering forward. He pressed with his heels and they sprang into a canter. They went down the gentle slope and up the other side. They circled the hilltop and came to a stop. Across the small valley he could see the verandah of Make’s house. And there he was. Leaning on the rail. Watching him.

He stilled his heart. He spoke to the horse.

 _What do you think? Will he be mine?_

He turned the horse and they cantered again, back the way they had come, the horse revelling in the evening air, and Adam in the freedom of their shared strength and speed. He came up over the hill and slowed to a trot. Make was waiting at the fence. There was a long pause. Then Make smiled. He climbed over the fence and greeted the horse. Adam dismounted and stood next to Make, holding the reins. He suddenly became aware that Make’s guard was down, that he was struggling with his emotions.

“You came for me,” Make said. Adam moved closer.

The horse suddenly turned and lowered its head against Adam, snorting softly as though to share its breath.

Part 4

They lay side by side, facing one another, and talked. Now they kissed, now they ran hands over each other’s shoulders and arms, but though each was straining to be closer they could not hurry. The slight space between their bodies, the slight gap of air which each was breathing, was like a frisson of emphasis; now there was _no_ gap, now they were truly alone.

“I wrote a song for you.”

“Sing it to me.”

 _Adam was standing outside his sleeping quarters on Marian’s farm. He was noticing how night does not fall at all, but rather rises up out of the earth. The hills were black, silhouetted against a cathedral sky. A single star was twinkling intensely, the visual embodiment of a piano trill. He wandered over to the corale to speak to his horse. It looked up but didn’t approach yet Adam felt its glance conveyed tacit acknowledgement of their connection. He watched the tiny grass moths hovering close to the ground. Despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead, he could not help feeling his life was miraculous. Not hopeful, but miraculous. And for reasons that didn’t differ greatly from those attending the moths; he too was fluttering haplessly in the accident of his existence, preparing to make more of himself, in music and in love._

 _He returned to his cabin and began to write. “Whatever it is I feel for you, it’s as countless as the stars, pouring steadily into me, from the night’s upturned glass.”_

He ran his finger along Make’s lashes. He touched the reverse crest of his top lip. His own puckered down in an approval so deeply ingrained it made him shake his head in denial of his ability to bear it.

“You came for me,” he said. “And told me I was weak as a new born foal.”

“So I did,” Make said. “You need some work on your lower legs,” he went on. “You’re still tending to push down into your toes. Whenever you look down you should check that you can see your toes.”

Adam laughed. He put his arm across Make and pulled him against him. It was time to close the gap.

“Don’t be so smug,” he said roughly. “I know very well what you did and you were right. Well, there’s no 'perhaps' in me now. You put me to lunge and ran it out of me.”

He lay full length on Make, organs to organs, skin to skin, chest to chest. He knew from Make’s closed eyes that he was tense with desire and at long last free to be himself.

“This is me singing,” he said.


End file.
